


Prove It On Me

by beyonces_fiancee



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Human, Butch/Femme, Communication, Established Relationship, F/F, Gay Bar, Hurt/Comfort, Interracial Relationship, Intimacy, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 16:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11901921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyonces_fiancee/pseuds/beyonces_fiancee
Summary: Usually they keep a low profile when they go out so they don't get harassed or, worse, jumped. Not dancing hardly at all, even though she and Ruby dance slow and rough and lovely to the phonograph behind the pulled curtains in their apartment window. Nursing their drinks, that’s what they’re busy with at the bar, talking to friends in corners and watching the scene as the night unfolds. As long as they keep to themselves, Greenwich Village is one of the better places to be.1940s AU Rupphire. Sapphire and Ruby are heading to a night out at a lesbian bar when trouble finds them.





	Prove It On Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladyfedora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyfedora/gifts).



Night. The streetlights are muddy orange; the old snow crust spangles the gutters. It’s not an unfriendly neighborhood and it isn’t even late yet but the cops always cruise around here and they’d rather not look for any trouble. She walks with her arm tucked into Ruby’s, her little heels clicking on the sidewalk, the kiss behind the trash cans in the alleyway off Ninth Avenue still burning on her mouth. Ruby is warm next to her. Even through her big camel coat and Ruby’s peajacket, the heat soaks through, and she leans into it. When people tell her she should look for a taller butch that can stick up for her better, she never cares to listen. They match perfectly.

They’re not really talking, just being together. A minute ago, Ruby asked her, “The Bagatelle?” and she said, “Mm-hm,” not really thinking of what that would mean. Ruby comes to bars because of her, because she wants to circulate in the crowd she knows; she doesn’t know anyone at the house parties Ruby goes to, but it’s the least she can do for Ruby, to go with her. But that means Ruby comes with her to the bars too.

Usually they keep a low profile when they go out so they don't get harassed or, worse, jumped. Not dancing hardly at all, even though she and Ruby dance slow and rough and lovely to the phonograph behind the pulled curtains in their apartment window. Nursing their drinks, that’s what they’re busy with at the bar, talking to friends in corners and watching the scene as the night unfolds. As long as they keep to themselves, Greenwich Village is one of the better places to be.

Twelve or thirteen more blocks to go, plenty of people still passing (with odd looks and sneers at Ruby’s wide-brim and wide-shouldered suit and her own slinky little satin thing peeking out of the coat under soft pincurls), but the crowd getting thinner as the slivered moon rises. Fewer passers-by bumping into them, shouldering them aside.

Nine blocks. Her little heels, clicking on the sidewalk. Ruby’s old boots, the sound of the tread in step with hers. The pressure of Ruby’s opposite hand, holding hers secure against Ruby’s arm.

There are two men standing on the far corner. Before either of them opens his mouth, she knows what’s going to come out of it.

“Hey, honey. Cold night for a walk, huh?”

She feels rather than sees Ruby tense under her hand. She doesn’t turn an eyelash, just keeps walking, with a gentle pressure on Ruby’s bicep that says: _leave it. Forget about them. Come with me._ They have to cross the street and walk past the building where the men lean against the wall, but they don’t have to exist in the same world as them.

The other man spits “You’re with that bulldagger?” after a second. After he sees that she doesn’t plan to answer his friend.

She still doesn’t answer. The words don’t touch her in her serene bubble; men have yelled at her, have grabbed at her before. But Ruby’s walking faster, pulling her along now rather than the other way around. Ruby’s jaw is squeezing. Ruby is boiling over already. Sapphire would rather it not come to this, but she knows Ruby and she knows the way that men don’t let go. They’re about level with the corner of the building now. The first man speaks.

“You think you’re a man, huh?” He’s talking to Ruby now, because he can see he’s getting under her skin. She’s easy sport. “You think you can walk around like that with this little piece on your arm?” He reaches out for Sapphire’s skirt, but Ruby yanks her away.

“Don’t talk about her,” she growls. Thrusts herself between Sapphire and the reaching hand, and turns to see that she’s okay. They were walking with Ruby toward the curb before; she likes Sapphire to walk on the inside of the sidewalk, so she can protect her. Now they’re crowded together near the wall with the two men taking another step closer.

Before Ruby can say anything, Sapphire says in a low, calm voice: “Remember what we talked about.” They’re bent toward one another, heads tipped together, looking more like lovers sharing a word in a crowded bar than anything else. “You need to be safe for me.”

Ruby groans, “But he’s going to _hurt_ you—”

“You think you’re a man—” he pushes at Ruby’s back, making her stumble a step closer to Sapphire— “come on, why don’t you see if you can fight like a man.”

Ruby’s eyes are pained, furious, pleading. Sapphire squeezes both her hands in hers and nods once and whispers, “I love you.”

“Hey,” the guy is saying, “I’m talking to you, fagg—”

Ruby’s fist crashes into his face. His head flies back and he almost falls, but stumbles up to launch into her midsection, and they topple onto the pavement. The other guy jumps in but gets a forearm to the chin and lurches backward. Sapphire’s pressed against the wall, breathing fast, watching what happens, not backing away. Other feet are running—bystanders who don’t want to get involved. She can see Ruby’s dark eyes with the whites all around them as she pounds and pounds at the man’s face and head. The other man jumps on her back as though to throttle her, Ruby elbows him in the gut, but not before he lands one on her eye.

A few blocks away, a siren yips and begins to wail.

“Come on,” Sapphire urges, and yanks Ruby up by the back of her coat. Ruby’s shaking, still scrambling to get at the man just rising from the ground, but Sapphire takes her hand white-knuckle tight in her own and begins to run in the opposite direction. After staggering a few steps in hesitation, still looking back, Ruby spits a mouthful of blood into the street and follows.

* * *

They don’t go to the Bagatelle; they’ve had enough trouble for one night. They go to Sal’s instead. It’ll be slow on a Thursday night, and Sapphire wants to get past the coat check and into the washroom with as little commentary as possible. But Ruby drags her feet as they head toward the swing doors, and calls out to the Junoesque redhead behind the bar.

“Hey, Rose.”

The bartender looks up and grins big to see them. “Well, if it ain’t Bonnie and Clyde.” Her husky voice is loud in the low-ceilinged bar. “What’ll it be, fella?”

Subtly, Sapphire pulls Ruby back, just enough to arrest her forward motion and whisper in her ear. “We need to go wash your cut and tape up those fingers.”

Ruby smiles, squeezes her hand without looking at her. “Right after I get you a drink, baby.”

“Will you please let me take care of you?”

“Later.” Still isn’t looking at her.

“Please, Ruby.” _She keeps up the bravado long after the danger’s gone._

“Sapphire, _please_.” Ruby’s voice is suddenly choked up. “This is what I need right now. I just need to sit with you for a minute.” Her hand in Sapphire’s is still cold and damp with sweat, and the wobble in her voice tells just how much she does need it: a moment to breathe, to hear the ice clink in the glass louder than the cars rushing past the window overhead. A moment to feel their knees pressed together under the brass rail. Here, where the cops come to collect their weekly protection money, where the feeling of safety may only be a phantom, but nonetheless, where the world outside, just for a moment, is shut away.

Rose with a towel in her hand is watching both of them, waiting for a reply.

Finally Sapphire raises Ruby’s hand to her lips and kisses her rough knuckles, mouth open to feel the callused skin under her lips, and takes a seat at the bar.

Ruby’s sigh of relief is audible. She pulls up a stool for herself and sits, glancing over with so much gratitude that it makes Sapphire’s throat feel a little rough. “A sidecar, not too much lemon. And Jameson on the rocks for my best girl.” Looking at Sapphire again, she adds, “Make that a double, please.”

Sapphire laughs under her breath. Naturally.

They don’t speak as Rose pours the drinks. It’s been a silent night for the both of them; there’s so much that could be said, but nothing much that really needs to be said. The pressure of their legs together, from hip all the way down to ankle, is all Sapphire needs to feel at peace. Ruby’s pulse throbs in the artery below her wrist for Sapphire’s index finger to seek out. She isn’t quite looking Ruby full in the face, but she loves to watch her from the corner of her eye: slicked-back crew cut in her kinky hair, those baby cheeks that make her look a little younger than she is with a line of blood streaked from the cut below her eye, the hard line of her jaw softening into relaxation as she breathes deeply. She looks so sharp in her shirtsleeves, even after the scuffle.

“Sidecar and a double Jameson on the rocks.” Rose slides the drinks over with a wink and then, tactfully, leaves them alone together.

As the alcohol hits her busted lip, Ruby winces, then sighs as she leans into the burn. Then she turns a bit on her stool to look at Sapphire. The light in her face is so strong that Sapphire almost can’t look at her, or she’ll start to tear up, the first time she’s come close to crying that whole night. She has no idea how she came to deserve such love. She had her whole life planned, down to picking out the johnnie she thought she had to marry, but fate had other ideas. And she knows it now, though she didn’t know it then: Ruby wouldn’t have let her throw herself away like that without putting up a fight.

“Good thing we didn’t go to the Bagatelle after all, hmm?” murmurs Sapphire. The Jameson was a bright idea. It tightly curls the roof of her mouth into peat and smoke, but as it goes down, the burn of it loosens her heart. She smiles slightly to hear Ruby’s chortling laugh.

“Yeah,” Ruby says, still chuckling. “If we can get into that big a scrape just walking in the Village, imagine what they’d think of me strutting in the door with you in that little blue dress. There’d be a riot.”

“If you say so.”

“Studs throwing punches left and right. The fire marshal on the phone.” Ruby’s grinning at her. “High heels broken in the melee. Total pandemonium.”

In answer, Sapphire just leans forward and kisses her.

She finds it utterly charming how Ruby’s surprised, every single time as though it’s new, though by now they must have kissed a thousand times: the little intake of breath as their lips touch, the soft moan that escapes Ruby’s throat and becomes lost, the way her fingers clutch at Sapphire’s knees and one hand slides up to cradle the curve of her cheekbone. Her cheeks flush darker under her rich color, and Sapphire feels her own skin heating too.

Such a surprise, every time; such a gift.

Finally, slowly and tenderly, Sapphire breaks the kiss. “Go wash up. I’ll meet you in a minute.” Another brief press of lips, because she can’t leave this closeness without one final caress. Their mouths are still, together.

As Ruby leaves, she murmurs to Rose, “Keep it open,” and reaches into her purse to slide her a five-dollar bill. Then she glides toward the washroom to see to her butch.

* * *

The cut under Ruby’s eye isn’t too bad, but it’ll definitely bloom into one hell of a shiner. There’s nothing to be done about the busted lip except washing it out, but Sapphire has a piece of elastic bandage in her purse to tape up the sprained fingers. At least she hopes they’re sprained, not fractured. Can’t afford to go to a doctor to get them set.

The water from the tap is icy, and Ruby hisses half in shock and half in relief as she splashes a handful on her face with her good hand. Sapphire soaks her spare pair of nylons in the sink to make a cold compress to put on Ruby’s eye. She folds them under the water with quick, precise motions, feeling throat-tight with a huge love, trembling, small. She is planning the tone in which she wants her voice to be heard. 

When she turns back to Ruby with the dripping bundle in hand, her voice is steady and tender and sure. “Thank you for protecting me.”

Ruby stares at her, uncomprehending. “It’s my job. I want you to stay with me.” 

Sapphire is silent for a long time. She knows Ruby sometimes can’t tell what she’s thinking, so she’s grateful that it’s not obvious why she’s swallowing again and again, blinking rapidly, looking up at the dingy light overhead.

Steady, tender, sure. “I want to tell you something, Ruby.”

Ruby just listens with eyes fixed on hers, anxiety plain on her face. What does she imagine I’ll say, Sapphire wonders.

“I used to call the bars every Saturday night,” she says, “when I was with Richard.”

Ruby’s baffled look tells Sapphire everything. She believes that Sapphire would want to leave her, after a night like this, after Ruby showed herself to be afraid. That there’s no reason a femme would want to stay with her butch if it wasn’t for the way the butch defended her honor.

“I would wait until he was asleep, and sneak out of bed into the hall, and just stay on the phone without speaking… listen to the sounds in the background, the dancing, the voices… until the bartender hung up. Then I’d call the next number.”

She senses in herself that if she stops talking even for a moment, she’ll lose her composure, so she doesn’t stop talking.

“I would go down the list until I ran out. Every number, everywhere I knew. I would need to sit against the wall for a few minutes when I was done, to be sure Richard wouldn’t hear me come back to bed. Every time.”

“I don’t understand,” Ruby says finally, sorry and helpless, and angry with herself for not understanding. That much is plain in her voice and the way her fist clenches on her knee. Sapphire wants to grab her hand and unfold it and lay a kiss inside the palm, but she doesn’t.

“Calling the bars was my lifeline. I wanted so badly for one of those voices to be mine. I never thought it could be, I thought I could never go there and be one of those people, but I thought I could at least listen to that place, and imagine. What it would feel like to be free.”

Ruby is weeping, tears scrunching out of the corners of her eyes and trailing down her face. She’s kissing Sapphire’s knuckles and pressing them to her forehead.

“I never thought I would be able to live like this,” Sapphire says. “To live the way I want to live. To have a life with someone like you…”

She hears her own voice, a little shaky now.

“I don’t stay with you because you knock down handsy men for me. I stay with you because I care for you. No matter what you feel. You’re still my sweetheart.”

Finally Ruby wipes her nose with the back of her hand and laughs a snotty, tearful laugh. “That’s my girl. Jeezus, all this mushy stuff. I’m sorry, Sapphy.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Sapphire hopes she sounds as in love as she feels. Ruby isn’t always sure that she cares, she knows, but it’s hard to let herself go into the easy emotion that Ruby does. Words aren’t always enough. At least they’re both okay.

She reaches out and presses the compress against Ruby’s eye, and holds her hand with the other. “You save my life every day.”

* * *

The night air bites their faces as they step into the street hand in hand. Ruby’s respectable again, or close to it, with a strip of bandage taping the cut below her eye. Both their coats have been nicely brushed by the coat-check girl. They look a pretty picture together, Sapphire thinks.

Too late, Ruby realizes they’ve walked out of the bar without closing out.

“Did you pay for the drinks?”

“Yes, and I’m buying you dinner. Is the Round-the-Clock Café all right?”

“But I—”

“Please,” says Sapphire, with a tiny smile. She begins to walk north and Ruby jogs a couple steps to follow her. The streets are quiet; the night is old, the ashcans scratch with rats in the garbage. The moon is high overhead and its light is silver. “It’s the least I can do for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> My inspiration for this story was primarily drawn from two sources:
> 
> “Well, you had to be strong–roll with the punches. If some guy whacked you off, said, ‘Hey babe,’ you know. Most of the time you got all your punches for the fem anyhow, you know. It was because they hated you... 'How come this queer can have you and I can do this and that….’ You didn’t hardly have time to say anything, but all she would have to say [is] ‘No,’ when he said, ‘Let’s go, I’ll get you away from this.’ He was so rejected by this ‘no’ that he would boom, go to you. You would naturally get up and fight the guy, at least I would. ... And we’d knock them on their ass, and if one couldn’t do it we’d all help. And that’s how we kept our women. ... Nine times out of ten she’d be with you to help you with your black eye and your split lip. Or you kicked his ass and she bought you dinner then. But you never failed, or you tried not to….”
> 
> Elizabeth Kennedy and Madeline Davis, _Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold: The History of a Lesbian Community_
> 
> ‘I would get up at one or two a.m. and I would call every gay bar I had the number to from the 1940s. I wouldn’t say anything. I would just stay on the phone and listen to the sounds in the background. I would stay on until they hung up, and then I would call another one of my numbers, until I had called all the numbers I had … That phone. Those numbers. That was my lifeline … It meant there was a place somewhere — even if I couldn’t go there — that place was out there. I could hear it. Freedom.’ She called the bars two to three times a week like this — for fourteen years.
> 
> From an interview with Myrna Kurland in _Baby, You Are My Religion: Women, Gay Bars, and Theology Before Stonewall_ , by Marie Cartier (2013).
> 
> The title is from Ma Rainey's "[Prove It On Me Blues](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlCso6BMGUo)."


End file.
